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I plunged into the swimming pool blue of the NatWest media centre at Lord's on Thursday. Diving in at the deep end, I joined the ranks of Britain's cricket correspondents perched high above the famous old ground, perfectly spaced on their journalistic terracing, stepped one above the other, like vines clinging to a Tuscan hillside.

It is a glorious life - fed and watered by the MCC, nurtured and cared for by the attentive women from the sponsors, Cornhill Insurance, and all the while being paid to watch cricket. Most look well on it - some a little too well.

At times, life in the air-conditioned bubble can take on a surreal atmosphere, as though the press are the crew of some sporting Starship Enterprise floating through the galaxy in search of new life for the back pages.

And the characters seated at their gleaming white, space-age consoles can match the eccentricities of any members of the crew of the fictional spaceship.

Our own cricket correspondent, Michael Henderson, spent the entire final day's play with a teddy bear leaning on his laptop.

Looking perhaps more like a team captain from University Challenge than Captain Kirk, he introduced me to his bear, as only Henderson could, describing him as Dutch and named Gustav and claiming that this bear could play better than any of the England team.

Navigating her way through the day's play was the scorer, Jo King. Observing her plot the ebb and flow is an absorbing diversion. Oh, to be blessed with that of power of concentration.

In case you were in any doubt, scoring is not simply about pitching up with a scorebook and pencil. Arranged to precision on Jo's desk were three clipboards, a pair of binoculars, three pens (black, blue and red), a ruler, one clock (combined analogue and digital), a laptop, modem, mobile phone and a large bouquet.

They were a floral ``sorry'' because scoring can be a dangerous business. Poor Jo was very nearly knocked out by a cricket bat that alarmingly plummeted from one of the media centre balconies. Jo, not missing a dot or run, merely glanced up for a second. Nothing distracts Jo from her computations.

Of course, alongside the print people there are a cast of stars from radio and television - the eternally boyish Jonathan Agnew, ever ready for a gossip between stints at the microphone; Ian Botham still looking every inch a hero; and our newcomers from Channel 4, James Whitaker, steadying his nerves with a cigarette, the effervescent Dermot Reeve and the concerned Wasim Akram, a diabetic, who, between commentaries and despite more pressing diversions, was caring enough to dish out advice to me, diagnosed diabetic just a month ago.

As an inexperienced newcomer, I was grateful for the welcome I received from seasoned scribes who have witnessed countless sporting summers. There was the sprightly Brummie, Jack Bannister, who peppered my days with tales from press boxes of the past, while during one session I had my own personal commentator in the shape of that wise watchman, the beady blue-eyed Bob Woolmer.

For most of the day there is a lively buzz among the correspondents which only falls silent when the formidable Wendy Wimbush, the press box scorer, calls for quiet to broadcast her stats over the loudspeaker.

The only other time a calm descends comes as deadlines approach. The only sound to be heard is the soft click of laptop keyboards, the faint rustle of the pages of dictionaries and the errie electronic whirr of words being transmitted by computer modems.

One wonders what it was like in the thunderous days of Imperial typewriters.